


Call of the Wild

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - 1600s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Uninformed Consent, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, dad!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: It is 1687, during the coldest part of winter, when sickness ravages the small town of Beacon Hills. When his young son falls ill, Stiles takes the boy into the forest in search of help, hoping the stories about the wolves in the woods are true. On the night of the full moon, Stiles meets Peter and his pack.





	1. Prologue

The year was 1687, during the coldest months of winter. Sickness had spread remorseless through the small village of Beacon, sequestered away in the valley between the hills for which their town was named. The town physician had no hope of keeping up as more and more of the villagers fell ill. They were driven in sickened droves to the single church in the center of town, the cross atop it standing tall and pale above all else. A skeletal beacon to God. They bowed their head in prayer and asked that He show them mercy from this plague of which there seemed to be no respite. The preacher’s prayers worked as well as the doctor’s potions and tinctures and leeches.

“Papa,” a small boy whined in a weak voice. His body was wracked by his coughs, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Every inhale was sticky and wet.

“I’m here, Jesse, papa’s here.” Stiles crouched beside his son’s bedside after he entered the room, brushing sweat-damp hair back from his pale face. The boy was burning with fever; it had not broken in days. Stiles was at a loss for what to do, forced to watch as the sickness ravaged his young son. The doctor called it pneumonia. The preacher, a harsh, grizzled old man, called it punishment for their sins. Stiles didn't know what sin a six year old boy could commit to incur such wrath.

“Do you think you can drink this?” Stiles asked, his hand moving back to hold Jesse’s head up, pressing a cool glass of water to his dry lips. Jesse made a pitiful sound that wrenched Stiles’ heart, but dutifully swallowed a few mouthfuls. “Well done, Jesse,” Stiles said with a sad smile, setting the half-empty glass aside on the bedside table.

“Hurts, papa,” Jesse whimpered.

“I know, darling. The doctor is going to come in the morning,” Stiles said, even as he knew Deaton would be unable to heal his son, just as he had been unable to heal the others in the town. Stiles sighed, wishing desperately that there was something he could do as he stood and tucked his son in. He bent down to kiss his burning brow. “Get some rest. You need to keep your strength up.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course.” Jesse slowly moved to the side, making room on the small bed for Stiles. It was difficult to fold his long limbs onto the small mattress but he managed, holding his son to his chest. Stiles carded his fingers through the boy’s hair until he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Stiles stayed awake through the night, staring out the open window. The moon was full, heavy in the sky. Stiles could just see it peeking over the trees. They were not yet into the darkest hours, when the moon would be at its highest peak.

Just as it was approaching midnight, the howls began. They were haunting, echoing through the forest surrounding Beacon, and morbidly familiar. Everyone had their own superstition as to the wolves roaming the forest, that could never be tracked in daylight. Hunters that sought them out in the night would be found come morning, left in bloody, mangled heaps at the edge of the tree line. A warning to stay away. Eventually, they learned that the forest was no place for man.

The howls woke Jesse, and soon he devolved into a fit of coughing. Stiles held him close, sitting up so that they boy may better breathe, and rubbed his back soothingly.

“It’s alright,” Stiles said softly into the boy’s hair. “Try to breathe slowly, like I taught you. That’s it.” Stiles’ voice coaxed Jesse into taking slow, shuddering breaths, until minutes later the coughing finally stopped. Jesse’s face was damp with more than sweat when he pulled away from his father’s chest.

“Papa,” he cried, pulling at Stiles’ shirt. Stiles looked down, and felt ice water rush through his veins. He knew the color drained from his face as he saw what had his son so distraught; staining his white shirt was blood. The same that coated his mouth. Stiles knew what that means; none had survived once they started coughing crimson.

Outside, the wolves continued to howl, while before him his son sobbed, knowing where his fate lie. All it took was one look at the blood-stained boy to make up Stiles’ mind.

Stiles stood from the bed and quickly changed out of his nightclothes, then helped Jesse to do the same.

“Where are we going, papa?” Jesse asked as Stiles laced up the boy’s boots.

“Out into the forest,” Stiles said, smiling up at his son. He hoped the forced expression came across as reassuring.

“Why?” the boy asked, sounding fearful. As if he believed Stiles may go to leave him in the woods for the wolves.

“I think we may find someone who can help you, there,” Stiles reassured. He stood and picked up his weak son, cradling him close. It was time to see if superstition had basis in reality.

The wolves were territorial creatures, prowling through the shadows as they patrolled the forest, keeping humans away who would do them harm. Stiles knew this; he could hear them. Some of the wolves were closer than the others, their howls deafening. But even closer, he could hear the soft steps as they stalked him and his son, low growls a telltale sign that he was approaching land he’d best avoid. A sane man would have turned around, but Stiles was desperate.

Miles deep into the forest, Stiles came across a clearing. Exhausted, Jesse had fallen asleep again, lulled by the gentle sway of Stiles’ steps. Stiles got the impression he had been herded to exactly this place, the clearing filled with moonlight. As he walked to the center, the wolves that had been following him finally revealed themselves, surrounding him. Their eyes glowed, and Stiles thought maybe the superstitions were true. He hoped they were.

Stiles didn’t have to wait long before a wolf, bigger than the rest, came into the clearing with long, loping strides. It was a confident beast, towering above Stiles, eyes glowing crimson. It’s coat was sleek and black, struck through with gray that caught the moonlight. Mesmerizing. The beast came up to just in front of Stiles, until he could feel the warmth of it’s breath on his face.

Then the creature transformed before his very eyes, and a man took his place, naked as the day he was born and uncaring of that fact.

“What are you doing in my territory, boy?” the man asked, red eyes giving way to cold, unforgiving blue.

“I’ve come to learn if the stories are true. I supposed they are; parts of them must be.” Stiles held Jesse tighter. “Is it… is it true that you can turn humans into what you are?”

“Is that what you want? To become one of us?” The man looked amused, and Stiles shook his head.

“No, my son. He’s sick, he’s _dying_ , and there’s nothing to be done.” Jesse started coughing again, a worse fit than any so far, and Stiles could not continue to hold him. He kneeled on the ground and laid his convulsing son at the creature’s feet, looking up at him with tears in his eyes. “Please, you have to help him,” Stiles begged. “Jesse’s all I have left.” Stiles’ father had been one of the first to fall to the sickness; Jesse’s mother had followed soon after.

“You would have your cub turned into a monster?”

“I would have him _survive_.”

“He would not be able to leave with you. Your cub would have to stay here, with us. He would have to join my pack.

Stiles looked down at his son. Jesse’s breaths were getting shallow, the boy unable to inhale a full breath. “Would I be allowed to see him?”

“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” the man said. When Stiles looked up his eyes were red, and his smile was too sharp to be human. “The sun is soon to rise. If you want me to save your cub, I must take him now. Come to the edge of the forest tomorrow night; I will send someone to bring you to him.” Before Stiles had a chance to speak, the man was bending down and scooping Jesse up into his arms. Though awake, the boy was too sick to respond with more than a pitiful groan. It took everything in Stiles to keep him from reaching out and taking his son back, knowing that this was his best chance.

“Wait!” he called when the man turned to leave, the wolves who had all been silently watching flocking to him. “What's your name?”

“Peter.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Stiles said.

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night, Stiles.”

Stiles watched his retreating back, for the first time in weeks having hope that his son may yet live. This newfound hope outshined the knowledge that Stiles had never given Peter his name.


	2. Praetor Naturam

Stiles exited the forest, rather than trying to follow the wolves as he wished to do. He didn’t want to test their patience and lose Jesse’s one chance of survival as a consequence of his brashness. But he waited just inside the edge of the forest until the sun was just beginning to rise over the tree line. It was beautiful, the sun’s amber rays cutting through the trees and filtering towards the ground.

Before long, a wolf came and ran him off with snarls and golden eyes. He returned to his home after that.

The house was modest, not the sort of lavish dwelling that could be found by settlers along the east coast. It, like the rest of the town, was hastily thrown together. A home made from determination and kept standing only by sheer force of will. Despite the dismal place, full of creaking wood and holes in the ceiling, Jesse’s mother had loved it. It was theirs, their own little place, quaint and warm.

Heather had been a kind young lady. Her and Stiles had grown up together, thick as thieves and just as troublesome. When it was time to settle down after late night fooling around led to consequences, neither of them really minded. They had always planned that, should they not find someone else, they would wed each other. They may not have had the love of husband and wife, but they cared dearly for each other, and even more so for Jesse. Their home had never been barren of love.

As Stiles sat on his porch and watched the sun rise, playing with the silver cross hanging from his neck, he wondered what Heather would think of him now. For abandoning their precious boy to the wolves, offering him up like sheep to those feral animals. He hoped that one day, should he make it to heaven and see her again, she could forgive him.

When the town rose and the church bells rang, Stiles left the porch and made his way into town for prayer, as all good men must. The sick, those that were able to leave bed at least, were kept segregated to one side of the church. The healthy kept their mouths hidden with cloth masks and scarves, in a vain attempt to not succumb. Together, they all bowed their heads in prayer, while father Marsh spoke of repentance for their sins. And though it was blasphemous, Stiles prayed to his late wife’s uncaring god for his son to be spared, for the unholy beasts in the woods to follow through on their promise, and save his son.

When it came time to leave, Stiles was one of the last. He had no hurry to be home, not wanting to feel the emptiness of his house. It echoed with loss, the silence—where once there had been Heather’s singing and his father’ stories and Jesse’s laughter—was deafening. Stiles waited until the last sick man shambled his way out before finally standing, his knees aching from the press of the cold ground for so long. Father Marsh turned harsh eyes on him before he left, pale blue and half-blind. His tight mouth was twisted in a permanent sneer, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel as if the man had heard his silent prayers and seen his sins. The old man said nothing. Stiles left feeling unsettled.

By evening, the village was quiet again. No one cared to go out for a drink, not when a quarter of the town was dead and the rest seemed to be following in their footsteps. While everyone was settling in for fitful nights filled with coughing and blood, Stiles was pacing the length of his tiny house and biting his nails down to the quick, waiting for night to fall.

The sun was below the horizon when Stiles finally gave in to his impatience, pulling on his coat for the long walk he knew was to come. The sky had not yet fully given itself to indigo by the time he reached the forests edge. He didn’t mind waiting.

An hour past sunset, a wolf finally appeared from the trees. Its coat was an inky black. So dark, it was as though the great beast had been born of the shadows. It’s eyes glowed blue, unlike the golden-eyed beast from before, and Stiles didn’t know what that meant. Only that it must have been sent by Peter, and so when the wolf jerked its head before turning away, Stiles followed it into the forest without fear.

They walked for many miles, across uneven, snow-covered terrain. The wolf’s steps were quiet as the night, while Stiles’ crushed through crunching snow and breaking branches, surely signaling their position to every creature in the forest. The wolf turned to him, preternatural eyes narrowed and teeth bared, and Stiles tried to walk quieter.

Eventually, so deep into the forest that Stiles would be lost if he tried to return alone, they came to the edge of the mountains that surrounded Beacon. Stiles took only a moment to look in awe upon them, and the many caves they held, before he was forced to follow after the wolf. He did not want to be left behind when he was so close.

As they walked, more wolves came from the caves to see them, as well as some humans. Stiles wondered if they were really humans, or if they were the same creatures of legend as Peter.

The wolf finally stopped. Stiles almost crashed into it, lost in thought. He was glad he stopped in time when the wolf turned to snap at him, the beast’s great maw equal with his throat. Stiles hastily backed away, hands raised in surrender, until there was an arm's length between them. Seemingly satisfied, the wolf huffed and sat down, waiting.

They didn’t have to wait long before Peter came walking towards them, this time thankfully clothed.

“Stiles. I see you had no trouble finding us.” He looked to the wolf in front of him, holding out his hand. It slunk forward, close enough for Peter to stroke its mane. “Thank you, Derek. You may go, now.”

“Where is my son? Is he alright?” Stiles asked once the beast—Derek—had gone,

“Your cub is safe, don’t worry. Come with me; you and I have business to discuss.” Stiles stood fast, refusing to go with Peter.

“Not until I see Jesse.”

“You want to make sure I’ve held up my end of the deal,” Peter said. He didn’t look insulted. In fact, there was amusement shining in his steel blue eyes; he was pleased. “I would expect nothing less. Come, my niece is watching over him.” Peter beckoned, and this time Stiles followed.

They went into one of the many caves dotting the mountainside, and Stiles was pleasantly surprised to find that it was nothing like what he had expected. It was warm, despite the cold outside, and the further they went, the more lavish it became, with plush furs and comfortable furnishings. Peter looked over his shoulder and smirked.

“We are not animals,” he said, perhaps reading Stiles’ surprise. “Though we spend our nights as wolves, our days are spent as man and woman. For the most part.” A wolf came loping by, eyes flashing gold at Peter. He reached out to stroke his hand down the beast’s flank as they passed.

They were deep into the mountain. It was not as stifling as Stiles may have imagined, the air clean and crisp, yet warm. There was enough circulation to keep it fresh.

After an eternity, Peter finally led Stiles through one final door. He was met with a beautiful young woman, and before her, was Jesse. He was lying prone on the bed, panting in shallow breaths, unconscious. Stiles crossed to his side and felt his damp brow; he was still feverish. He turned to look at Peter over his shoulder, feeling betrayed.

“You said you would help him.”

“I have done as much as I am able,” Peter said casually, leaning against the door frame, ambivalent to Stiles’ hate.

“Don’t be cruel, uncle Peter. He doesn’t know our ways,” the young woman spoke harshly. She looked up at Stiles and gave him a kind smile, taking his hand. “Don’t mind him, he gets like this sometimes. My name is Laura, I’ve been watching over your cub. He is a strong one; he’s going to be alright.”

“He doesn’t look alright.” Jesse's condition hadn't improved since Stiles watched Peter carry him away. He wasn't coughing anymore, but he was a deathly pale, his clothes damp with sweat. He looked to be on his death bed, and the sight of him filled Stiles with fear.

“The change is difficult, when you’re not one born to this life like us. His body is fighting it. All humans do. But he will pull through this, I promise. If his body was going to reject the bite, it would have done so by now. Look, it’s already begun to heal.” She drew Stiles’ attention to Jesse’s arm, lifting it and turning so that his palm was facing up. On his wrist was the clear indentation of teeth, a savage wound that had torn through his flesh. But it was healing faster than any normal human would have, even Stiles could see that. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, relief washing away his fear.

Laura excused herself, and Stiles walked around the bed to take her place. Which, unfortunately, put him right across from Peter, the man directly in his line of sight. Stiles ignored him, looking down at Jesse instead as he ran a hand through his hair. He got a mumbled “papa” in response, and it made him smile.

Stiles ignored Peter for a long time, and the wolf let him, content to watch Stiles make sure his son really was alright. Only when he was satisfied did Stiles finally look back up at him.

“You didn’t tell me there was a chance he could have died with you.” And Stiles wouldn’t have been with him. He would have abandoned his son to die a grizzly death at the hands of monsters, alone and afraid. What kind of father did that?

“Would it have mattered?”

Stiles wanted to say it did. Dearly. “No,” he sighed. If Stiles had done nothing, Jesse would have surely died. With Peter, there was at least the possibility he would pull through.

“Younger humans have a higher chance of survival,” Peter offered. “They’re stronger. Healthier. Their bodies have not yet worn out with time.”

“Why did you agree?” Stiles suddenly asked. “Everyone else who has gone uninvited into the forest came back in bloody pieces. Why did you help us?”

“I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for pitiful creatures.” Stiles didn’t like the way Peter looked at him then, a shiver running down his spine. Looking into Peter’s eyes, that had begun to take on a red hue, made him feel like prey. “Come, now. We have much to discuss.”

Stiles bent down to kiss Jesse’s brow, before rising to follow Peter through the mountain halls once more. This time, every breath felt stifled as the walls closed in, each step taking him farther from his son and bringing him deeper into Peter’s grasp


	3. Confliction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter is where the rape/non-con, dubious consent, and uninformed consent tags come into play. Check the end notes for the specifics.

Peter brought Stiles to a spacious room and closed the door, confining them to its four stone walls. Despite the ample space it was stifling, claustrophobic. Peter, perhaps sensing Stiles’ unease, walked past without touching him to lean against a desk by the wall. He crossed his arms and smirked when Stiles cast off is coat and began unbuttoning his shirt without having to be asked. He watched with rapt attention as Stiles’ pale chest was slowly revealed.

“Have you ever known a man’s touch, Stiles?” Peter asked bluntly. Stiles could appreciate that, had the question been any other. He reached up, fingers touching the silver cross around his neck. It had belonged to Heather.

“No.” Of course he hadn’t. God condemned such desires, sent those who had them to burn in hell for all eternity. More than that, Stiles had never known the touch of anyone but Heather. Their naive fumbling in the dark of the hay-barn one night had brought Jesse into this world. Stiles had done the honorable thing and married her as soon as it became evident that she was pregnant. That was seven years ago, when they were only sixteen, and he had not sought another’s company since. Unlike some men in the town, Stiles was faithful to his wife, even if he didn't love her as such.

“I thought so. Come closer.” Stiles steeled himself, and did as he was told. He’d thought Peter may want something like this, from the way he’d looked at him before, when the met in the woods. Stiles had spent all day thinking about it, filled with dread over the thought. And, just maybe, a hint of anticipation as well. Not that he would admit it.

Once he was within reach, Peter took him by the waist and jerked him close, until they were pressed almost chest to chest. Stiles inhaled sharply, and was met with Peter’s grin.

“You’re a lovely thing, aren’t you?” Peter lifted his hand, tracing a fingertip along Stiles’ collarbone, slowly pushing his open shirt aside. “I think this will work out beautifully for the both of us.”

“Do what you will so that I can return to my son,” Stiles said, pretending he wasn’t affected by Peter’s lingering touch. He stared resolutely past Peter when he pushed the shirt from his shoulder’s, letting it pool on the floor at their feet like a wedding veil. Or maybe a funeral shroud was more apt.

“None of that, now.” Peter gripped Stiles jaw in a gentle hold and forced Stiles to meet his gaze. His eyes were blessedly human, cool blue rather than blazing red. “I intend to take my time with you.” Stiles couldn’t suppress a shiver at the promise.

Peter leaned in to drag his nose up Stiles’ neck, tongue curling out to flick over his pulse point. His rough stubble scraped over smooth pale skin, leaving it tinted red and raw. He soothed the burn with his lips, kissing marks into Stiles’ sensitive skin until Stiles was gasping, leaning into him.

Stiles was slowly beginning to relax, becoming more pliant to Peter’s touch, just how the wolf wanted him. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and basked in the new sensation. Where Heather had been soft, Peter was rough, scraping his skin with his beard and teeth. There was no mistaking that it was a _man_ he was with. And Peter wasn’t hesitant in leaving marks, biting his way down Stiles’ shoulder just hard enough to have his pulse quickening, his cock stirring in his trousers.

“Why don’t you undress me, pet?” Peter asked against the speckled skin of Stiles’ shoulder, his hands skating down the boy’s sides. Stiles made a soft sound, then he was pulling at the buttons of Peter’s shirt, hands clumsy with nerves. Peter chuckled, pulling away from him just long enough to shrug off the garment. Stiles' hands paused at the laces of Peter’s trousers, hesitating. He looked up at Peter, and saw the lust smoldering in the wolf's eyes like hot coals. His irises were purpling with red-tinged desire. “Go on, nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Stiles had half a thought to refuse. He didn’t know if Peter would push him, force him to follow through if he tried, but he didn’t think Peter was the kind of man to do it. He would surely let Stiles go, repay him another way. But Stiles didn’t want to renege on their agreement. Peter had saved his son’s life; the least he could do was fuck him. The whores in the town's not-so-secret brothel had done worse for less.

Stiffly, Stiles pulled free the laces of Peter’s trousers and pushed them down his hips, pointedly not looking at him. He knew Peter was hard already, had felt his erection against his hip as Peter ravaged his neck.

“Your turn,” Peter said. He skated his hand down Stiles chest and abdomen, hands unnaturally warm against his cool skin. Stiles allowed Peter to undress him, removing even his boots, until he was standing bare before the wolf. Peter still had his pants on. Stiles felt horribly exposed, vulnerable, and had to fight the juvenile urge to cover himself. There was no point; Peter would be getting intimately familiar with him soon enough. “You are quite the specimen, aren’t you?” Peter purred. He was shamelessly admiring Stiles’ body, looking him over from head to toe, eyes lingering on Stiles' broad shoulders and narrow waist. He seemed to like what he saw; Stiles didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed. On the one hand,  if Peter found him unattractive, perhaps he could avoid this whole ordeal.

On the other, he’d hardly been a catch, not handsome or strong like other boys in the town. If he hadn’t gotten Heather pregnant, he may not have ever married.

“Tell me what to do.” Stiles knew what was expected of him only in the general sense; one of them was going to get fucked, and he was certain it was himself. Beyond that, he didn't know what to do.

“Oh, gladly.” Peter took his hand and guided it between his legs, until Stiles' fingertips brushed the edge of his pants. “You’ve such lovely hands. I want you to use them.”

Teeth worrying his bottom lip, Stiles freed Peter’s cock from the confines of his trousers, hand fumbling over the hot length pulsing against his palm. He gave a tentative stroke, then another, growing in confidence when Peter didn’t stop him. Stiles touched the wolf slowly, doing the things he did to himself, twisting his wrist just right. When Stiles rubbed his thumb under the crown Peter growled, thrusting into his hand. Stiles blushed, finally glancing down between their bodies to see the flushed head peeking through his hand, dark and angry compared to his long, pale fingers. Peter closed his hand around Stiles’, nuzzling his cheek as he urged him to stroke faster.

“You’re doing well, pet,” Peter murmured, turning his head so that his lips brushed the corner of Stiles’ mouth in an almost kiss. Stiles jerked back suddenly, hand stilling. Shame replaced any lust he had begun to feel.

“Please don’t,” he said to the ground, quiet. He couldn’t explain it, but that was an intimacy he didn’t want to allow. Not now, when this was nothing more than a business transaction born of gratitude. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, but he wanted a kiss to mean more than that.

“Alright,” Peter said, taking the rejection with grace. Stiles sighed in relief. It was short lived. “I can think if a better use for your mouth.”

Stiles looked up at him sharply. “What?”

“Get on your knees. You need to get me nice and wet before I fuck you.”

Stiles was beginning to think that perhaps he should have just let Peter kiss him. Still, he once again did as told and kneeled at Peter’s feet and looked up at him expectantly. Peter smiled, pleased, fisting a hand in Stiles’ hair.

“Open your mouth.” Hesitantly, Stiles parted his lips. He didn’t want to look at Peter’s cock, the size of it suddenly daunting, but Stiles couldn’t make himself close his eyes. “I’m not going to do the work for you,” Peter said when Stiles' brows furrowed in confusion, after Peter didn’t move

Blushing, because this was worse, Stiles wrapped his fingers around Peter’s length again. He stroked it, working himself up until he grew confident enough to lean in and tentatively suckle the head. Peter’s grip on his hair tightened, but didn’t pull him away, so he figured he couldn’t be doing this wrong. Bolstered, Stiles tongued at the underside of Peter’s cock, feeling the throbbing vein just beneath the hot skin. It was a strange sensation.

Stiles pulled away with a soft ‘pop’ to instead begin trailing kisses down Peter’s length, plush lips dragging over salty flesh. Above him, Peter was petting his hair, watching him with dark eyes. Stiles felt like prey as he tongued at Peter’s shaft, the wolf’s gaze heavy on him.

“Take me in your mouth again,” Peter ordered. “Deeper this time. You need to get my cock wet, remember?” Right, he had a specific purpose here, and it was not to nuzzle Peter’s cock with kisses and kitten licks. Stiles had to remind himself that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying this.

Part of Stiles wondered if he could just finish him this way, have Peter coming from his mouth and then being done with this before having to be fucked. Something told him Peter wouldn’t let him off that easy, however.

Stiles kissed the tip of Peter’s cock, the head pillowed against his lips as he considered the task before him, before drawing Peter back into his mouth. He felt Peter’s hand slip from his hair to cup the back of his neck, gently drawing him forward, prompting him to take his cock deeper.

“Mind your teeth,” Peter said when he felt the gentle scrape. Stiles couldn’t manage much, stopping well before Peter would have liked. But what he lacked in skill he made up for in other ways, stroking what he couldn’t swallow and sucking messily at what fit in his warm mouth.

Saliva began to drool form the corners of his mouth as he gradually built up to bobbing along Peter’s length, making him looked debauched. He tried to take more than he could manage, lips meeting his hand, and Peter felt one blissful moment of Stiles' throat squeezing around the head of his cock as Stiles choked before the boy was pulling away, coughing. Kneeling at Peter’s feet with tears in his eyes, lips red and swollen and wet with saliva, Stiles was beautiful.

“Is that wet enough?” He managed to ask, still gasping for breath. Peter smirked, cupping Stiles’s cheek and thumbing his plush bottom lip. He slipped the digit into Stiles mouth and his tongue curled around it, laving at the pad of his thumb. Stiles looked up at him as Peter pressed down on the muscle, waiting for an answer.

“I would say it is,” Peter finally said, withdrawing his hand. “You may stand.” Once Stiles stood, Peter moved behind him, running his fingertips down his spine, then back up. With his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck he pushed the boy forward, bending him over the desk. “Perfect,” he said, lips curled into a self-satisfied grin.

He left Stiles briefly, retrieving a dark bottle. Stiles eyed it warily when he set it down beside his hand. “What is that?” With his luck, it would be poison.

“Oil. You didn’t really think spit would be enough, did you?” Stiles’ face burned and he refused to answer, because yes, he had. Behind him Peter laughed. “Oh, you are absolutely precious.”

“I told you I haven’t done this before,” Stiles hissed, embarrassed. He tried to stand, feeling overexposed in the position Peter had him in, but the wolf wouldn’t allow it. He kept a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, making him bend over with his hands pressed to the heavy wood tabletop for balance.

“Relax, pet. I find your lack of experience charming.” Peter leaned down to mouth at the sensitive crook behind Stiles’ ear. He couldn’t suppress a shiver as Peter whispered, “That will make this all the better as I take you apart.” Peter pulled away, straightening once more, and Stiles told himself he didn’t miss the warmth of Peter’s body pressed against the length of his back.

“Hurry up, then,” Stiles said tersely. He tried to make himself believe it was because he wanted this over with faster, and not because his body lit up everywhere Peter touched him.

“Patience, little one,” Peter chuckled. His picked up the glass bottle and Stiles tensed as he heard the hollow sound of the stopper being pulled free. He knew what was coming next, Heather’s cross burning against the hollow of his throat in a cruel reminder of what would be waiting for him once he followed through.

Peter placed a steadying hand on his hip, a silent reassurance as he circled a slick finger around Stiles’ rim, waiting for him to finally relax before slowly pushing it in. The sensation was strange, but there was a distinct lack of pain, for which Stiles was grateful.

It wasn’t long before Peter slid another digit alongside the first, followed by a third soon after. Stiles had his lip pulled between his teeth, sucking and biting on it to keep himself quiet as Peter’s fingers worked expertly inside him.

“I think you’re ready,” Peter said, finally withdrawing. It left Stiles feeling empty. “Widen your stance, pet.” He pat Stiles’ flank, urging him to spread his legs further.

Stiles closed his eyes, listening to the slick sounds of Peter rubbing the oil over his cock. Peter rubbed the head against his wet entrance and Stiles’ stiffened, remembering the heavy weight of it on his tongue, the way its girth stretched his lips. But he didn’t have a chance to tell Peter to wait before he was pushing in.

“Fuck,” he gasped, rocking forward onto his toes as Peter bottomed out in one smooth thrust. Behind him Peter laughed, stroking his sides.

“Well done, pet,” Peter praised. Stiles just swore again, this time at him.

“A warning would have been nice.”

“I didn’t want you tensing up.” Peter gave a shallow thrust, pulling Stiles back by his hips to meet him half way. “You feel wonderfully tight. I think this arrangement will work out for us.” Stiles whined high in the back of his throat as Peter started fucking him in earnest, long, deep strokes that whited out his mind.

“You mean—fuck—we’re going to do this again?” Stiles asked when his mind caught up with what Peter had said.

“Oh yes. I intend to have you many times.” Stiles whimpered, the promise making something hot coil in his stomach. When a particularly hard thrust knocked him down to his elbows he stayed there, face buried in his arms in a futile attempt to muffle his moans. But the change in position changed the angle of Peter’s cock inside him, and soon he was brushing against something that lit Stiles up from the inside, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine.

“Peter,” he whined, just barely starting to push back against him, chasing the pleasure.

“Touch yourself. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

Stiles reached between his body and the desk to grab his length, stroking himself in tight, short pulls as Peter fucked him. He hid his blushing face in the crook of his elbow, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles were white.  

He came with a stifled cry, clenching around Peter’s length in a way that had the wolf growling, a distinctly inhuman sound. Peter didn’t stop then, instead drilling into Stiles harder than before, his thrusts shoving Stiles into the desk and surely forming bruises on his hip bones. They would be a striking match to the bruises caused by how tightly Peter held him, pulling him back into every thrust.

The sound of their fucking was obscene; slapping skin, the wet slide of Peter’s cock, animalistic growls and harsh pants, choked off moans and gasps. The air was heavy and thick with the scent of sex, stifling in the best of ways, and Stiles wasn’t coherent enough to care that he was drooling down his arm, his saliva pooling on the desk.

After several more hard thrusts, Peter wrapped his hand gently around Stiles’ throat and pulled the human up against his chest, head tilted back. Peter bit Stiles shoulder with blunt human teeth as he came, growling against sweat-slick skin. He licked up the salt as he filled Stiles with his release, still grinding into him to paint him deep inside.

Stiles sagged against the desk when Peter finally pulled away, softening cock slipping out of him wetly. His legs were weak, barely strong enough to keep him from falling to the floor entirely without Peter to hold him up. He heard Peter across the room, too weak from the afterglow to lift his head and see what he was up to.

“Was that satisfactory?” Stiles mumbled, thinking out loud. Peter’s laugh surprised him, the wolf suddenly behind him again. Stiles felt Peter wiping him down with a damp cloth, cleaning him up. What a gentleman.

“Quite,” Peter said. “I’m already looking forward to next time.” Stiles hummed noncommittally, pushing himself to his feet. Peter turned him so that they were facing each other once more and mopped up the come on his stomach. Stiles looked down, watching him work in a daze. He almost couldn’t believe he had just let Peter fuck him. He wasn’t quiet sure how he felt about it, other than extremely tired, and a little sore.

Peter hummed catching Stiles’s attention. “What is it?”

“This is a bit deep.” Peter lifted his hand, tracing his fingertip along the bite on the juncture of Stiles neck and shoulder. It had almost broken skin, the indentations of his teeth angry red. “I’ll send someone to look at it in the morning. For now, you may dress and return to your cub.”

Stiles dressed mechanically, his limbs at once stiff and loose. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt, not at all like after he’d had sex with Heather. But then he supposed that was to be expected; this time he was the one getting fucked, and Peter had shown no restraint, taking him apart as promised.

“Do you need help finding your way back?”

“I can make it on my own.” Stiles shied away from Peter when the man stepped towards him, suddenly needing space between them. He needed to get away from him, so that he could sort through the complicated, muddied mess of his thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t do that here, with the way Peter was looking at him, his eyes still dark and lust-filled.

Stiles made a quick exit, leaving Peter behind as he walked blindly down the stone halls. He got strange looks from passersby, some wrinkling their noses at him, others meeting him with smirks or raised eyebrows, and he knew they knew what he’d just allowed Peter to do to him. He didn’t know how; maybe they could smell it on him, if they were anything like real wolves. The thought made Stiles’ face burn with shame, and he walked faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles believes he has to have sex with Peter in return for saving his son's life. He briefly considers backing out, but ultimately decides against it: however, he doesn't know Peter's actual motivations in this scene (namely that Peter is capitalizing on Stiles' willingness from the get-go) and therefore can't give informed consent. That might sound a little weird/confusing, but it will make sense in the next chapter I promise. 
> 
>  
> 
> Find me @the-cookie-of-doom


	4. Chapter 4

Jesse was asleep when Stiles finally made his way back to his room, tossing and turning fitfully in the too-large bed. Peter had bitten him two days before, now, and Jesse looked no healthier than before Stiles carried the boy into the woods to meet an uncertain fate. Watching him now, short limbs tangled in a sheet, Stiles was consumed with the fear of a father for his only child. His last remaining family, that Stiles would do anything to protect. If only there was something he  _ could  _ do. But it seemed the only salvation Stiles was able to provide was bringing Jesse to Peter. Now, he would have to watch as Jesse suffered through the transition, and hope that Laura was right in that he would survive. 

Stiles walked over to sit on the edge of the bed beside Jesse, laying his hand over his brow. He was burning up, the fever worse than it had been from the sickness. Stiles didn’t know what that meant, only that it scared him. 

“Papa?” the boy asked blearily, waking at Stiles’ touch. He looked up at his father with glassy eyes, unseeing. 

“Hey, Jess,” Stiles said, smiling and hoping his voice sounded soothing, rather than belying his true feelings. “How are you feeling?”

Jessie moaned pitifully, reaching out to paw clumsily for Stiles. He picked up his father’s free hand and held it to his cheek, sighing. Stiles’ skin must be cool by comparison. “Everything is so hot.”

“I know, baby.” Stiles sighed, cupping Jesse’s cheeks. He could only hope whoever Peter sent for him in the morning would be able to help Jessie through the transition, if only a little. “But it’ll be over soon, alright? And then you’ll never be sick again,” Stiles promised, hoping fate didn’t make a liar out of him. 

Jessie groaned, wriggling in his confines like a distressed caterpillar unable to be free of its cocoon. Stiles stood to carefully untangle the blanket from his sweat-damp skin, and Jessie gave a ragged sigh of relief when it was finally gone. “Thank you,” he mumbled, trying to worm his way out of his shirt now that he was able. Stiles helped him, Jessie barely able to keep his limp arms over his head. Maybe they could go for a walk in the morning, Stiles thought. The brisk air would surely help to cool him down. If Jessie could find the strength to walk, that is. 

Once he was down to his undergarments, Jesse grabbed Stiles’ shirt in his tiny hand and tugged feebly until Stiles took his hand, squeezing it in reassurance. He pulled away from Jessie just long enough to get similarly undressed for bed before laying next to him. Jesse was on him immediately, snuffling into Stiles’ cool, bare chest, glommed onto him like an octopus. “You smell weird,” he mumbled. 

“Um.” Stiles blushed, running his fingers through Jesse’s hair. He had not expected Jesse to be able to smell Peter on him. Beating down his embarrassment and saving that as a conversation for later, Stiles decided to take that as a sign that Jessie’s condition was improving. “Try to get some sleep, Jess.” 

Jessie continued to shift around uncomfortably, huffing and puffing in tired frustration, before finally succumbing to sleep once again with his nose tucked against Stiles’ neck. Stiles wondered if it was because of his scent, the only familiar thing in this place.

***

Stiles woke before Jesse in what he could only assume was the morning. This deep into the mountain, he had no way to tell, but he doubted too much time had passed between now and when he had gone to the woods the previous night. 

He got out of bed and redressed, feeling sore from the previous night’s activities. Not wanting to risk running into Peter again so soon. He didn’t want to face him in the light of day at all, really, having not yet seen him except at night. Stiles feared having to see him during the daylight hours would give a sort of legitimacy to their encounter, one he did not want. He would rather proceed as though it was all a fever dream, able to be left behind and forgotten as the night receded into shadows.  _ And perhaps to be remembered another night, when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts and hands for company,  _ his traitorous mind supplied. Stiles pushed that thought away with all the prejudice it required, resolving not to think anymore about it.

With few options left to him, Stiles entertained himself looking around the room. It was spacious, more so than he would have expected. There was the bed, easily capable of fitting four fully grown people - possibly because the werewolves liked to sleep in their wolf form? - and a desk towards the back. Beside that was a case with several books, and plenty of space for more. Along another wall was a small table, a pitcher of water resting beside a modest wash basin. Above that a polished mirror. 

There was a chest at the foot of the bed as well, presumably to be filled with clothes. Stiles didn’t notice it at first, until his knee found it with a painful collision. Bending down, he rubbed at the coming bruise with one hand, using the other to open the chest. Inside it were toys, the sight of them making him smile. He wondered if it was Laura’s doing. 

Stiles was holding up a small stuffed wolf when there was a polite knock on the door. Figuring it was Peter, Stiles was slow to put the toy back and even slower to cross the room, fully aware that Peter would hear him stalling. The thought made Stiles smirk, pleased to inconvenience the wolf, even if in such a small way. 

That is why Stiles was surprised to open the door and not find Peter standing in wait, but someone else entirely. More surprising than that, he knew the man. 

“ _ Deaton?” _

“Hello, Stiles,” Deaton said pleasantly, a placid smile on his face. Stiles was sure his own slack-jawed expression wasn’t quite so welcoming. “May I come in?” Dumbstruck, Stiles nodded, stepping back to allow the town doctor to enter. He had a million questions running through his head, and it took him a long moment to finally settle on one, Deaton waiting patiently all the while.

“You… You  _ know  _ about all of this?”

“Yes. I have known Peter for quite a while.”

“ _ How?”  _

“Oh, it’s a long story, I wouldn’t want to bore you with it. Rest assured, I can promise you that no harm will come to you or your son while you are here.” Stiles followed Deaton across the room, where he put his bag on the table. “You made the right choice in bringing Jessie here. Peter can do far more to help than I ever could have hoped to do myself. Now, what is it that you need me to see to? Peter wasn’t too forthcoming with the details when he sent me.”

“Uh… he bit me.” Stiles pulled down the collar of his shirt to show Deaton the dark bruise; the indentation of Peter’s teeth were still clear, nevermind that he had bitten with blunt human teeth instead of his animalistic fangs. That could have caused the night to go in a whole other direction. 

Deaton hummed, giving nothing away as he gently touched the bite, prodding the bruise that had spread to the size of a man’s palm, a sickly green around the edges and vicious purple in the center. Stiles is grateful that Deaton at least doesn’t seem to be judging him for his actions, which must be undoubtedly clear. One doesn’t just  _ accidentally  _ get bitten below the collar like that.

“So am I gonna be like them now, too?” Stiles asked, aiming for a joking tone but falling flat. He already knew he wouldn’t; he was in nowhere near the same state as Jessie, and Peter surely would have told him if that were the case. 

“No. But I do believe I have something that will help this heal faster.” 

“Thank  _ god. _ ” Stiles did not want to walk around with such a visible reminder of his… proclivities. There was the risk that someone else would spot it, and Stiles was embarrassed enough with the looks he got from the wolves just smelling Peter on him. He didn’t want to think about the connotations of having such an obvious mark left on his body. 

Stiles watched as Deaton began taking supplies out of his bag, a mortar and pestle, and several glass jars of dried herbs being spread around the table. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me some water, please?” Stiles dutifully turned away from where the man was working to get the pitcher he had seen earlier. “Thank you,” Deaton said when Stiles returned with it, now grinding herbs together into a fine powder. He poured in some water before continuing, turning the contents of the mortar into a muddy, brown-green paste. It smelled earthy and not all together terrible. Just like mud at a river bank. 

Once Deaton was finished, the paste reaching the consistency he wanted, he scraped it into a small glass jar, then handed that to Stiles. “Apply that twice daily until the bruise fades.” As Deaton was putting his things away, he took a small tin out of his satchel. “And apply this anywhere else you may be sore,” he said with a very pointed - and yet still managing to remain neutral - look. Blushing furiously, Stiles accepted the salve as well. 

“Thank you,” he said, no longer able to make eye-contact with the man. 

“My pleasure. Is there anything else you may need, before I leave?” 

Just as Stiles was about to dismiss him, Jessie whimpered in his sleep. Suddenly his embarrassment was the least of his concerns, banished to the back of his mind where thoughts of Peter lie. 

“Yeah, actually. Is there anything you can do to make this easier on Jessie?”

“I’m afraid not. The change is… not an easy process. It is altering the very foundations of his being.”

“But he will be okay, right?”

“Children are the best suited to take the bite. Their bodies are not yet finished forming, there is little to be undone.”

“That wasn’t an answer. I Jessie going to  _ live _ ?” Stiles watched as Deaton clenched his jaw, his pleasant demeanor strained by Stiles’ sudden outburst. Stiles knew by Deaton’s vague answer meant, though, before the man spoke.

“There is never a guarantee that the bite will take. But your son has good odds, Stiles. I’m afraid that is the best I can tell you.” Deaton left after that, and Stiles was far from satisfied. He didn’t want to hear that his son had ‘good odds’. He wanted to hear that this wasn’t all for nothing. That he wasn’t putting Jessie through this pain, only for him to spend his last days suffering. 

Stiles had to remind himself that Jessie would have suffered anyway. He would have died drowning in his own blood, the way his mother and grandfather had, and that was an end Stiles would wish on no child. 

***

The next knock on the door was unexpected. Stiles was certain Peter wouldn’t come to see him now, having gotten what he wanted. Perhaps he would in the evening, but not now. 

Surprisingly, it was Laura that pushed open the door, not waiting for Stiles to rise from where he was sitting on the bed, one hand holding open a book and the other playing with Jessie’s hair to soothe his fitful sleep. The dark haired beauty walked in with a smile. And a tray of breakfast, bless her. 

“Hello,” she greeted. She only faltered for a moment as she got closer to Stiles. From the way her nose twitched, he knew he could smell Peter all over him. That is not something he would ever get used to.

“Oh my god, can everyone smell what happened?” Laura laughed, setting the tray on the table. 

“Yes,” she said unapologetically. ““There’s no need to be embarrassed, Stiles. We don’t care about such things here. It’s hardly like we can keep secrets when we can all tell what each other have been up to.”

“I imagine it would be awkward if you did.” She grinned at him, sharp and wolfish, suddenly looking much more like Peter. Stiles wondered if that was a family trait, or if it was because he knew what she was.

“Indeed. Come sit, you must be starving. I doubt Peter thought to feed you.” She rolled her eyes, and Stiles smiled despite himself. He tried to wake Jessie, but the boy was deep in sleep. Stiles decides it would be better to let him have his much needed rest, moving instead to join Laura at the table. 

“You look worried,” she observed. “You shouldn’t be. Your cub is going to be just fine, in another day or two.”

“So you keep telling me, but he doesn’t look like he’s getting any better.” 

“I suppose you’ll just have to trust us, then,” Laura said, not unkindly. Stiles worried his bottom lip. He wanted to trust them, he did. But he had grown up with stories of their viciousness, had been with his father when the ravaged bodies of their townspeople were found over the years. Laura may seem kind now, but that didn’t mean he could trust them just yet.

“May I be honest with you, Stiles?”

“I wish you would.”

“I know you’re afraid of us--”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Stiles. I can hear your heart; I know when you’re lying.”

“That is a disturbing skill to have.”

“Only to someone who lies.” She picked up an orange, extending her claws to peel it. Stiles was decidedly uncomfortable with the casual display that she wasn’t human, and the poorly hidden threat behind her action. “You hide it well,” she continued, “but as I told you, it’s hard to keep secrets among wolves. But in truth, it is  _ us  _ who should be afraid of  _ you _ .”

“Why? What threat could I be to a pack of--wolves,” he said, barely catching himself from saying ‘your kind’. By the way she flexed her claws, Stiles was almost certain she knew what he had almost said anyway.

“Quite a deadly one. You see, when humans fear us, they hurt us. They send hunters with fire and poisoned weapons. They raze our lands and destroy our homes.” Laura paused, taking a deep breath to compose herself, and Stiles wondered if she was speaking from experience. “I will now allow harm to come to my pack.”

Stiles was taken aback by Laura’s sudden severity, though perhaps not as surprised as he should have been at the thinly veiled threat in her words. In her place, with a stranger invading his home, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have the same wariness. But there was something else, as well. A darkness in Laura’s eyes that spoke to profound loss. That was something that Stiles could more than relate to, having lost most of his own family. Jessie was all he had left.

“I wouldn’t do anything to endanger any of you,” he said earnestly. He may not understand her people yet, but even with the shadow of nightmares and tales of horror surrounding them, they had done nothing to him to warrant such cruelty. They had instead knowingly brought him to their hidden home, exposing themselves to great risk in doing so. Stiles would not repay their kindness with betrayal when they had done nothing to deserve it. 

The way Laura looked at him, he knew she was listening to his heart, but she would find no trace of a lie. After a moment she nodded, satisfied, and smiled. “Good. I believe you will find your place here yet.” Laura dried her hands - now bereft of claws, returned once more to the dainty, short-nailed hands one would expect on a woman - on a cloth to rid them of the orange juice, and stood. “Now then, what do you say I show you around a little? I’m sure you would feel much more comfortable here if you felt less like a prisoner confined to one room.” Stiles nodded, smiling gratefully at her. 

“Please,” he said, following her to the door. But he stopped short. “I don’t want to leave Jessie alone.”

“Not to worry. My brother can stay with him.” She gestured for Stiles to follow. Reluctantly, he did.

***

Laura’s brother turned out to be the surly wolf that had lead Stiles here the night before last. Admittedly, Stiles wasn’t sure he was comfortable with leaving Jessie in his care, even with Laura’s endorsement. 

“He can be a bit standoffish, but Derek is a good man,” she said. “He’s great with my cubs. I promise he’ll take good care of Jessie.”

“It’s just me he doesn’t like then?” Stiles asked, watching Derek’s retreating back, knowing the wolf could hear him. 

“Derek is… complicated. He doesn’t like strangers, and he doesn’t trust humans. But he would never allow harm to come to a child, I promise you.” There was a story there, Stiles was sure. But even he knew that now was not the time to push for details. “Now, about that tour."

Stiles let Laura lead him farther from his son, and despite his apprehension at being separated from Jessie, he was curious. Where they were now was what served at their town, all dens carved into the mountain by its residence. Apparently, their claws could tear easily though stone; a disturbing thought. 

After a long walk, they were once again outside, the ground covered in snow and the sky free of trees. 

“Where are we?” Stiles asked, looking around the clearing. If he didn’t know better, he would say they’d reached the summit of the mountain. But they had not been walking nearly long enough.

“The other side of the mountain. You could call this our town square.” He would call it a fortress, actually. It was surrounded on all sides, at least two miles worth of clearing with groupings of trees here and there. It would definitely be a good place to retreat, should any attackers ever come for them. “This way, I’ll show you to the hot springs.”

The entrance to the springs was separate from the dens, but not too far away. When they entered the cave, the air hot and thick with heavy steam, Stiles realized this must be the source of heat for the dens right next door. It was clever, for sure, the many pools of water filling the cave beneath the dens, heat emanating up through the ceiling of the cave that served as the floor of the dens. 

“Here,” Laura said. Stiles barely had a second to turn and catch the bar she had thrown at him, smirking. “No offense, but I think a bath would do you some good.”

“Uh, sorry?” Stiles said, blushing from more than just the heat. She just laughed at him.

“This concludes the tour, so unless you have any questions, I’ll leave you to it. Can you manage your way back on your own?” 

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll see you later, Stiles.” 

Left alone, Stiles disrobed and dropped his clothes unceremoniously beside one of the more shallow pools. The water turned his skin pink within seconds when he stepped in. It was heaven, just this side of too hot and rich with minerals that soothed the ache in his muscles as he waded deeper, until he was up to his waist. He half-wanted to just stay here all day, luxuriating in the hot water. It was a tempting thought. At least, until he heard footsteps, and realized he wasn’t alone after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much for weekly updates :') I cri. leave a comment if you want sexy bath times next chapter ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every Monday at noon, let me know if I left off any tags. It's been a while since I posted to ao3, and it seems i've forgotten how that even works lol.


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